


A True Love of Mine

by Talullah



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28538478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Círdan and Írimë and a lifetime.
Relationships: Círdan | Nowë/Írimë | Lalwen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2020





	A True Love of Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn) in the [LotR_SeSa_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LotR_SeSa_2020) collection. 



> Written for Bunn, for the Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2020. The prompt was as follows:
> 
> A first-time meeting upon the shores of the Sea? Or beside the misty lake of Mithrim? An encounter in battle during Dagor Bragollach? Or a reunion in Valinor in the Fourth Age? Or maybe Lalwen actually survives through all the First and Second Age and is in Lindon during the War of the Ring? Give me all or any Cirdan/Lalwen or Cirdan & Lalwen!
> 
> Some people have played with the idea that Gildor might be Lalwen’s son, and I rather like that hypothesis, so I’m going with it too.
> 
> Although the story is not directly inspired by it, the title and a few references in the story are from "Scarbourough Fair" by Simon and Garfunkel.

**On the shores of Lake Mithrim, F.A. 2**

“You’re quite out of your element,” Círdan said to Írimë’s back, as he leaned against a tree trunk, watching her tear the wild flax plants from the wet, heavy soil under their feet.

Írimë briefly turned her head back to greet him with a glance of the barest acknowledgement. “I most certainly am not,” she said, returning her eyes to the task. 

It was a cold, damp day, and her wandering had led her quite astray in the moors to the North of lake Mithrim, where her new home was. Still, she was not cold or afraid. The light was dim, compared to Laurelin, and had become even dimmer after the Enemy had cast his nauseous fumes from the hilltops of Thangorodrim, but she rather liked the idea that there was light again and that it was for all. She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she had not noticed Círdan’s arrival until he was some fifty yards away, making himself known by quite intentional sounds of snapping branches and slurping steps. Despite seeing him, the first inhabitant of this new land to visit them, she had lowered her head and continued with her tearing at the wild flax, hoping that he would pass her by without much more than a casual greeting.

But, despite her cold greeting and the difficulty with the Noldorin language, Círdan stopped by her side and said, almost as if in provocation, “Shouldn’t a high Noldorin princess be embroidering linen in her warm, comfortable tent, instead of being out here, in the cold, doing manual labour away from the encampment.”

“I have protection, if that’s what you mean,” Írimë said, patting the dagger tucked on her leather belt. 

“If you’re planning on using that butter knife on anyone, rest assured that they will be already too close,” Círdan promptly replied, all the amusement gone from his voice.

Írimë lowered her head to her work, pulling harder at the stalks. Círdan was right and she knew it, but she had not thoroughly planned this outing. She had needed to walk away and to be alone for a moment. Finding the wild flax had been an unexpected blessing, but of course she had not brought a basket to carry it back and she would be covered in mud. She should just have made note of the place and send someone to pick it.

“I did not mean to offend by stating something that I sure is obvious to you, my lady,” Círdan formally said, as her silence prolonged itself.

Írimë stopped pulling at the flax and straightened her back, looking around at the mud and plants lying at her feet. “God gracious,” she said, suddenly feeling all too conscious of how dishevelled she was, as she really looked at Círdan, for the first time.

“It is obvious indeed, and you are right,” she conceded, despite her annoyance. “ I should have been more careful. Apologies for my surliness,” she said, involuntarily tucking a wind-blown wisp of hair behind her ear before remembering the mud on her hands.

Círdan bowed his head in acknowledgment and acceptance. “May I help you with the proper thrashing of these impertinent flaxlings around us?”

Írimë smiled, against her will, looking again at the chaos at her feet. “I positively slayed them, didn’t I?”

“You were very good at it.”

“Why, thank you,” Írimë said, curtsying as she belched out a short laugh. It sounded like a bark. When had she last laughed?

Círdan stepped closer and pulled at a flax plant. “Here, I’ll keep you company for a while. Some of my men are coming this way, hunting for supper and they will help us carry your spoils back to the camp.

“Thank you,” Írimë said, resisting against her usual impulse to reject help. “I’ve noticed that you have been hunting...”

“Not our forte, unfortunately. We’re better at fishing out in the open sea or hunting whales. But we do try not to overburden our hosts. Your brother is a most generous man but we try to be good guests.”

“You play wonderful music. I’ve been hearing some at night, when your men gather by the fires.”

“Thank you.”

“Why did you come up North to meet us?” Írimë asked, stopping again her work. Suddenly, she realized she was now feeling very cold and that her feet were completely soaked. She also realized that they only knew of Círdan what he chose to tell them.

“I like to know what is happening in the world.”

“I like straight answers.”

“So do I, but so far, we only know that, all of a sudden, as host of people who are supposedly living in paradise, decided to cross the sea on ships they immediately burned upon arrival, and then the rest of their kin arrived by a much slower, dangerous way. And that there seems to be no lost love between two brothers…”

Írimë nodded. “Yes, I told Fingolfin, as soon as you showed at our doorstep, that you were here to spy.”

“Fine spy am I… telling you plain as day that I am looking for some answers.”

For a long moment, Círdan and Írimë stared at each other in tense silence.

Finally Írimë relented. “Fine, I suppose that it is natural for you to be curious, even apprehensive. I, too, would seek out new people coming into the neighbourhood of my enemy and try to find out what their intentions are. But our family trifles are none of your business.”

Círdan nodded. “I suppose you are correct - family quarrels are not for the stranger’s eyes or ears.”

On an impulse, Írimë extended her hand, and touched Círdan’s. “You do trust us to be friends, not foes…”

“That I do,” Círdan said, covering her long, pale hand with his large, callosed, warm palm.

They stood scrutinizing each other for a long moment, before Írimë removed her hand from Círdan’s and looked around, into the distance. 

“I think I see one of your men over there.”

“Yes,” Círdan said. “The sky is getting darker.”

She looked up and then away, to the faint orange hues tinging the overcast horizon. “We should head back.”

“The wild flax?” Círdan asked.

“A stupid impulse. I had some energy to expend. Tomorrow I’ll come back with people to help me.”

They started waking in the direction of the camp. 

“Friends?” Círdan asked, glancing at her.

“Friends,” Írimë said, keeping her eyes on the horizon.

**Mereth Aderthad, Eithel Ivrin, F.A. 20**

“And again I find you decimating plants…” Círdan said to Írimë’s back.

She turned sharply, holding the stems of the foxgloves she had just picked on one hand.

“They’re for dying. They give a lovely shade of green.”

Círdan smiled. “I am glad to see that now you carry a bow and quiver with you on your expeditions. And a sword, too” he added, as his eyes roamed down her body. 

Although his gaze somehow unnerved her, Írimë smiled warmly at Círdan. “You should see me yielding them,” she boasted. “Twenty years is time enough for much improvement.”

Círdan smiled. “I have no doubt that you are most excellent at anything you endeavour.”

Írimë laughed. “Flaterrer.”

“Not quite. I know that you have become your brother’s right hand and that your people trust and respect you.”

Írimë looked away, embarrassed at the attention. “Still spying, I see,” she joked.

“I like to keep aware.”

“Right.” Írimë picked a few more stalks laden with the gracious, purple flowers. “How are things going in the Falas?” she asked, as she worked.

“As usual… as well as things can go when we live under the brooding shadow of a malevolent maia.”

“Yes, well, I never said I was good at small talk,” Írimë replied, winking.

“One can’t be perfect,” Círdan said, making her blush.

“Well, I’m done here.” Írimë said, tidying the foxglove stems in a large but orderly bouquet.

“Let me take those for you,” Círdan offered.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Írimë said, immediately regretting her brusqueness.

Círdan did not seem to mind it, though, and continued walking by her side. 

“I heard that all the organizing of this "Feast of Reuniting" was your doing,” he said.

“Not quite,” Írimë vividly replied. “The idea was my brother’s and Gildor did the toughest part, by visiting all of the lands and peoples within range and inviting them to come. I just organized the logistics.”

“Yes, just the logistics,” Círdan dryly retorted. “To provide food, shelter, sanitation, entertainment, and security for hundreds of people in the middle of nowhere… That’s really nothing to make note of.”

Írimë blushed. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“Well, how about Gildor,” said Círdan. “I thought that was Finrod doing the travelling.”

“Finrod only went to Doriath and then to the Falas… Doriath took its own time in being persuaded to deign us with their presence.”

Círdan snorted. “Do I detect a vague note of annoyance?”

Írimë looked to her side, to Círdan’s grin. “Why, only the faintest note,” she replied with a malicious grin of her own.

“Thingol can be… special,” Círdan ceded.

“I will take your word for it.”

“No desire in meeting your father’s old friend?” Círdan insisted.

Írimë stopped walking and faced Círdan. “I am quite busy… quite. I have no time for people who have no interest in me or my people.”

“I do believe that is one opinion that you do not share with your brother.”

Írimë shrugged and started walking again. They were reaching the edge of the encampment and she found herself slowing her gait, wanting to delay the moment when Círdan would go on about his own business.

“I can’t say that you are incorrect,” she muttered under her breath. “My brother has a very large, and sometimes naïve, heart.”

“In that, I think we can agree.” Círdan paused and looked around them, waiting for a maid who carried a basket of soiled linens for washing to go her own way. “I am so very glad to see you.”

“I am glad too,” Írimë replied, lowering her eyes, feeling confused with herself. She was not an innocent maiden receiving the attention of her first lover. She didn’t want a lover, and Círdan was certainly not offering himself in that way, at least not in a direct way that she could recognize as such.

“In our first encounter, I could not stay for long up North. I did quite enjoy our talks and our walks in the moors. I imagine that you are very busy right now, but I would like to spend a little more time with you, if you would entertain the idea…”

Círdan looked straight into her eyes, his face so tanned and handsome framed by the flowing white hair, his eyes, so blue and piecing, waiting for her reply.

“I don’t know,” Írimë stammered, after a few moments. “Are you…”

“Proposing myself as your lover?” Círdan completed, with a kind smile. “I don’t know. Why don’t we see how we like each other?”

Írimë nodded, looking for words that would not come. “Of course,” she ended up saying, after two boys passed them running after a kite.

“Then, please let me take those,” Círdan said, “and, if you have no immediate obligations, come to my tent - I brought you a gift.”

Írimë nodded, still a little stunned, as she followed Círdan.

\----

Cirdan´s tent was made out of what seemed to be sails. The fabric was lighter than the Noldorin tents and let plenty of the pale sunlight in, as well as chill drafts from Spring breezes. By her side lay the foxgloves, on the thick rug that seemed to be Círdan’s only luxury. His page had lit a small brazier as soon as they had come into the tent, but Írimë was still feeling too cold to take off her coat.  
The page set a jug of water and a tray with dried fruits and cheese on a low table before them, as Círdan prepared something in the back of the tent. Then he left them alone.

“Close your eyes,” Círdan asked as he sat himself by her side, on the floor pillows, holding a small plate behind his back.  
Írimë obeyed. 

“Open your mouth.” 

Again, Írimë obeyed. Círdan delicately placed a morsel between her lips. It was cold, wet, and it felt oily, but not in an unpleasant way. As the tastes started spreading inside her mouth, she felt the poignant taste of fish, something like mackerel. And smoke, there was the soft taste of burnt birch wood. And herbs. 

“Parsley,” she said, tentatively, covering her mouth as she spoke. “Sage? Basil, no, not basil.” She rolled the morsel of fish in her mouth again. “Rosemary and thyme.” 

She opened her eyes, only to find Círdan grinning at her. “You got the herbs right. How about the rest?”

Írimë savoured the fish one last time before swallowing. “I think mackerel, but not quite - maybe a similar species, from these shores. And birch wood for the smoke.”

“That is quite impressive!” Círdan applauded. “You had all the herbs right and the wood too.”

“How about the fish, what is it?”

“Tuna.”

Írimë smiled at Círdan. “Thank you - that was delicious.”

“I noticed that you liked the fish we brought to Lake Mithrim and I had this made especially for you. Had you tried tuna before?”

“Yes, but not prepared in this way,” Írimë said, picking another morsel from the plate Círdan had set on the low table before them. “It is marvelous.”

Círdan smiled. “Glad you liked it.”

“So, shall we talk more?” Írimë asked.

“If you can spare the time…” Círdan replied, leaning back against a large wood box covered with engravings of sea monsters.

“Yes, I have everything set. We came in early to prepare everything for our guests. Now everybody knows what their chores are and when to do them.”

“Wonderful. You must be exhausted, though.”

“I am tired, yes,” said Írimë leaning against another pillow. It offered less support than she expected and she found herself almost lying down.

“Then rest,” Círdan invited, as if taking a cue. “Nobody knows you are here. You can nap or just stare at the ceiling and let your mind drift. The world will keep on…”

Írimë smiled. It is tempting but I’d rather talk and taste these wonderful things you’ve set out for us. What are these sweet, sticky fruits?” she asked, picking something brown and shiny.

“Dates, from the south. We bring them to the Falas whenever we happen to sail past the Bay of Balar.”

“Wonderful,” she said, as she tasted them.

For a while, they talked about Círdan’s travels and how an empty and fraught place Beleriand was becoming under the advancements of the Enemy. Írimë was happy to see that Círdan had hope in the Noldor and in a concerted effort to defeat Morgoth, even if he didn’t lay too much faith in Fëanor himself. Círdan recited a poem about the sea, making Írimë miss the quiet afternoons from long ago, in the white beaches of Alqualondë, whenever came the rare chance to visit. But those were warm waters and these Eastern seas were cold and imposing in their fury.

“I often visit your nephew, Turgon, in Nevrast,” CÍrdan said.

Írimë nodded. “I was there only once. It seems like everyone is travelling across these lands and I am missing out on all of it. But I know where I am needed and it is a joy to see wheat growing where there was nothing but barren ground.”

Círdan nodded, smiling. “Yes, the Noldor, the crafters and tamers. I do have to admit to liking your breads, even if we are still reluctant to plant crops of cereals. A few of us are starting too, though.”

“I know, Gildor told me he saw it, in his last visit to the Falas,” Írimë said.

“Is he your lover?” Círdan asked.

“No,” Írimë said, sitting up defiantly. “Gildor is my son. Born out of wedlock. But I suspect you knew that.”

Círdan poured Írimë a glass of the tea he had made while they talked. “I suspected as much, although no one ever refers directly to you as his mother.”

“If you thought so, then why did you goad me with this lover conjecture?” Írimë persisted, defiant, unsure of how to read Círdan’s neutral expression.

“I wanted to hear your story from you,” he replied, before sipping from his piping hot tea. “Why did you tell me so bluntly about his birth? I know something of the costumes of your people and I know that a child out of wedlock is not well seen where you come from.”

“I want to see if you scare easily.”

“I don’t.” Círdan moved from his pillow and knelt by her side, taking her hand in his. “We must look positively barbarian to your eyes - the women running around with a child on one hip and a spear on the hand...”

“And an infinite amount of lovers, husbands and friends.” Írimë added, smiling. “Positively barbarian, as you said.”

“You don’t seem particularly repulsed, though.”

Írimë placed her tea glass on the low table and covered Círdan’s hand with hers, feeling, for the first time, more than curiosity. Desire, she realized, had crept up from his warm hand to her heart and it was painful. “Gildor’s father, he was promised to be wed to someone else,” she said. “They had been separated for a very long time when we met, but, nevertheless…” 

Círdan smiled sadly, for a second, before caressing her cheek with his fingertips. “Was?”

“He died somewhere along the Helcaraxë. We were going to find a plot of land, somewhere, and live freely and happily ever after.”

“And your brothers supported you in that?” he asked, still holding her hand, letting his thumb rub slow, careful circles on her skin.  
Írimë twisted her mouth. “Not Feänor, not at first. He’s rather the puritan. But when it suited him, later, yes. Fingolfin has a much gentler soul and can see past one’s transgressions.”

Círdan wiped the tiny tear that formed on the corner of Írimë’s eye. “So you were mourning when we met.”

Írimë lowered her head and nodded.

“One day you must tell me your story,” he asked, taking away his hand to pour more tea. 

Írimë felt its absence as a rejection. “So, now you know.”

“I am no judge of the heart,” Círdan said.

“Are you sure? I hurt people and shamed my family.”

“And they still love and trust you. From the regret I hear in your voice, I am sure you punish yourself enough already.”

Írimë stared at him for a while. Círdan smiled, ran his fingers over her hair in a light caress and stretched over behind her to take from a stool his citar. He started playing simple chords, playing along as if we were rediscovering the instrument.

“I like the way you play.” 

“I like the way you walk,” Círdan said. “I would kiss you and ravage you right now.”

“Would you? We barely know each other. I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Círdan laughed. “Good for you.” He became serious. “Good for us. I am in no rush, and if it takes another twenty years to see you, then so be it.”

“I find you baffling.”

Círdan chuckled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, as he resumed playing, beginning a light, airy song.

“I’ve made mistakes too, you know. And I’ve lived for a long time. Your father was a friend.”

“I know… I miss him.”

“I wonder if we will all one day meet again.”

\-----

After the Mereth Anderthad, Írimë found herself visiting Nevrast as often as she could. And sometimes, so it happened that the Lord of the Falas was there too, on official business. Sometimes, she even had business in the Falas, as embassatress to her brother. There were walks, long talks, gifts, many warm touches, and a growing, burning desire. And yet, both waited. The world was a dark and dangerous place and yet, they slowly savoured the inexorable collision route they had found themselves in. Gildor, increasingly close to his uncle Finrod as son, explored the seen and unseen world. Often, he brought letters along with the gossip from other lands, and Írimë read those letters, sweetly addressed to Lalwen, the name that Círdan had forger for her from her mother name. 

One night, right before Írimë left the Falas from one of her visits, they went walking in the sand, under the moonlight. Círdan wore the cambric shirt made of the wild flax Írimë had picked so long ago, died with the foxgloves from the Eithel Ivrin. 

“I told you I was a slow worker,” she had said, when she presented him with the shirt, the night before.

“You always have so much to do,” Círdan replied, fondling the soft fabric with his hands. “It is lovely and well worth the wait.”

“Such as us?” she could not help asking. “I want you.”

Círdan had laughed softly. “Yes, such as us… lovely and well worth the wait. But the waiting can end…”

Írimë had caught his hand and placed it onto her breast. Time stretched as if the stars rose and set before their lips touched, something akin to fear running in their veins, but then there was only fire and hunger and one long night, made of many kisses, hands roving and roaming, soft, whispered words and love, painful and joyous in equal parts. 

They had spent the night and most of the day in her room, uncaring of what scandal they might cause, for, while the customs of the Teleri were kinder, she was still a princess of the Noldor, the people who had landed upon these shores wrapped in a dark mystery, and he was still a prince of his people who had lived alone for more years than most could count.

“Stay,” Círdan had asked, as they walked in the sand, under Ithil’s rays.

“I want to,” she had said, placing her hands on the soft fabric, inhaling his scent of sea and sage. “And I will, the next time I come over. I need to set my affairs straight back home.” 

**After the Dagor Bragollach, Eglarest, F.A. 456**

Írimë sighed, holding the child to her breast, as both watched the tumultuous waves, holding on to the mast. Gil-galad was smart for his six years of age, and very quiet, but he was still a child set on a very long and perilous journey with a great aunt that he barely knew. Often she heard him crying in his sleep, but he was a brave child and gave her no trouble at all in his waking hours. 

As they went down the Sirion, leaving Orodreth, Dairiel and Finduilas back in Tol Sirion, the voyage had been easy enough, and despite the cold, their only fear was to be seen by a band of orcs. When they reached the Fens of Sirion, though, they found a burnt village, right at the edge, and two charred bodies. They looked like men, but they could be elves. It didn’t matter. Írimë was glad that the others apparently had escaped, but they could also have been taken as slaves. She would rather not know. The river was unnavigable for several miles, and they had followed their guide through the Fens, fearing that any misstep might be their last, that every shadow might hide a foe. 

It was a relief when they had reached the open river again, but the boat that was supposed to be waiting for them was not there. Logistics after a short but devastating war were not fully articulated, as was to be expected. They continued by foot, following the margins of the Sirion until, after a few days, they saw a vessel clearly meant for other sailing, navigating up the river, with Círdan’s colours flying at the mast. Írimë cried with relief as they boarded the ship, but they still had to navigate all the way to the sea, passing the maze at the Mouths of Sirion, and then navigate the open sea up to Eglarest.

For her, this was the worst part of the voyage, as, finally, they had someone to care for their needs and safety and she was left alone with a frightened child and the thoughts about her fallen brother and nephews. 

After the death of Fingolfin, and the final turn of the war, Írimë had ordered the evacuation of Hithlum. She had never liked living so close to Thangorodrim, and now it was not safe at all. Still, many resisted her order and she was only able to convince some of the families, mostly composed of women and children alone, to travel in small groups, in the directions of all the Elven kingdoms, except for Doriath, who did not want or deserve them.

As for the many who chose to stay, she felt duty-bound, more than ever, to act as their interim ruler, now that Fingolfin was not to return, and that Fingon was so absent, completely buried in military issues, strengthening their defences and on the constant search throughout the countryside for bands of orcs or other signs of the Enemy. 

Not six months had passed when they received a letter from Tol-Sirion, from her great-nephew, Orodreth, who was convalescing from a wound in his leg and in the depths of hopelessness and grief. He had lived all his life at odds with his father, Angrod, and now mourned him and lamented the time lost in quarrels. He also mourned Aegnor, an uncle who had been closer than a father. Stricken by grief and the fear that Tol Sirion might not hold out for long, now that the Enemy had shown himself so powerful, he begged Fingon to let his son, Gil-galad, to be sent to the Falas as a fosterling of Círdan’s. It was the safest, furthest away place he could conceive on this side of the Belegaer.

Despite the political implications, Fingon had promptly agreed, on the condition that Írimë took the boy, since Orodreth could not leave Tol-Sirion for a prolonged journey and his wife and daughter refused to leave his side.

So now she was sailing toward the land of her former lover, hoping that he would receive them with more than his usual courteousness. She would like a chance to talk, to explain herself to him, to let him know why she had failed, why she had again, and again postponed their permanent union to return to her brother’s side and to her role in Hithlum, until Círdan had finally lost his patience and had softly asked her not to return to Eglarest.

As they reached the estuary of the Nenning, she anxiously searched for the white walls of Eglarest, as the thoughts of reunion ran through her mind. It took them a full day to finally reach the port and disembark, due to strange weather roughing up the waters of the river. Írimë searched the faces at the quay, but Círdan was not there. Upon disembarking, a page came to take them to Círdan’s halls.

“The Lord hasn’t been home yet, since the war,” the boy said in a thick Falatrim accent, “but he sent message that you were to be installed in his home and properly treated.”

“Where is Lord Círdan?” Írimë inquired.

“He brought our troops back half of the way, to the Tumbalad, and then he went back with a small group of men to try to find refuges.”

Írimë nodded. It was quite like Círdan to go well beyond what was expected of him, but in an understated way. She would wait then, and focus her attention on the child.

\----

Círdan did come back, after a few weeks, preceded by a seemingly endless stream of refugees. Írimë gasped when she saw him, for he had aged much since she had last seen him, almost like a mortal. His hair had lost the silver gleam and looked white, and his mouth and eyes had sagged, lending him an air of permanent sadness.   
Írimë’s first impulse was to touch him, to hold him in her arms and rock him for a long time, but there were many others present and she didn’t know if her embrace would be welcome, after nearly a century of separation.

Later that day, after dinner, she hoped that Círdan would want some time alone with her, but as the hours passed, Círdan conversed with Gil-galad, then sent him to bed and stayed talking with his advisors. After tucking Gil-galad in, Írimë returned to the main room, to warm herself by the fire and wait for Círdan to have time for her, but there were many things that required his attention after a long absence. She felt jealousy growing in her chest, as one of the councillors, a young woman with long, jet black hair, leaned over him to show him documents. Írimë for long hours waited until she realized that no happy reunion would occur that night.

She thought that she would have to wait for days, but Círdan was not petty or a coward to forever avoid her. On the second evening he sent her a note, apologizing for his delay in taking time to talk to her and proposing that they had lunch the following day. Írimë felt hurt by the polite kindness of the note. Did she not mean anything to him anymore? Or did she, and Círdan was merely absconding himself behind a façade of polite indifference. She struggled to sleep, but the next day, she was ready to meet Círdan.

Círdan greeted her with perfect politeness and not a hint of coldness, as if they were old friends. He asked after Fingon, offered his condolences on the lost of her loved ones, as if he, himself, had not endured great losses. Then, they talked about the voyage to Eglarest, discussing the alternative routes they might have taken. After that, Círdan inquired, quite gently, about Gil-galad’s temperament and what were the expectations for this fostering, and his upbringing.

Írimë replied to all the questions, as a certain sadness slowly invaded her. Círdan was not angry at her, nor was he putting up a front - she knew him well-enough to see that he was treating her as an old friend because that was what had been left in his heart - friendship, tenderness, but not the love that had once been. And she knew she had no one to blame but herself.

As she pushed the dessert around in her plate, she wondered if she should not hold her peace and let the subject die unremarked but the question still burned in her chest. 

“Shall we talk about us, now?” she at last asked.

Círdan inhaled deeply. “Of course,” he said. “What do you wish to say?”

“That I am still in love with you.” Írimë fixed her eyes on her plate.

“I don’t know what to say,” Círdan replied.

“That you are still in love with me? That you forgive me?” Írimë asked with a sad smile.

“We could not find one another in more peaceful times…”

“I could not come. I felt duty-bound to my brother, who was always my champion. Was I to desert him when he needed me the most?”

Círdan nodded. “I understood that a long time ago, as I understand now, that despite this talk, you will not stay, because Fingon needs you.”

Írimë drank the last drop of her wine. “I could stay for the boy.”

“I know how things are in Hithlum. I receive letters from your nephew where he lauds your capacities and loyalty. Nothing has changed.”

“And can’t we love each other from afar?” Írimë asked, setting the glass down with more impetus than she would have preferred.

Círdan reclined in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “I suppose,” he said at last, avoiding Írimë’s eyes.

Írimë shook her head. “How can you be so cool, so collected? You should be angry at the past, angry at my indecision, angry at my feeble proposal at this late age in our history…”

“I was, for a while, very angry.” Círdan replied. “But I was already old when I met you. I was among the first to be born on this land… I sought you out hoping to meet the daughter of my long lost friend, and in turn I met a beautiful, intelligent, loyal woman who raised so many conflicting feelings in me. I wanted to behave like a boy, to abduct you, to spend my days loving you. And I forced myself to be slow… and then I was frustrated when you could not meet my desires, even if I knew that you were the type of person who would never abandon your loved ones and your duties.”

Írimë reached out her hand to touch his. “So you understand…?”

“I understand. And I love you more for it, even if it is at the expense of my own desires.”

Both rose and slowly walked toward each other, until they were standing with barely an inch between them. Círdan was the first to raise his arms to hold Írimë. They stood in their embrace for a very long time, whispering to each other all the words of love that they had kept within their hearts for a long time.

**Tol-Eressëa, Fo.A. 171**

At first Írimë doubted her eyes. Then, the calls of the boys told her that her eyes were not defective. There was a ship on the horizon, coming from the East, and, as the minutes passed, she could see that the white sails were triangular, just like those of the Falathrim. The Last Ship, the one that she had waited for so long. She had started to disbelieve the tales of the newcomers, but deep inside her there still resided a hope that Círdan would one day gather all the stragglers and finally sail home. She had left her mother’s house in Tírion to set residence upon Tol-Eressëa, when Olórin had sailed in with news from the War of the Ring and of all of those still remaining on the Eastern shores.

Now Círdan was here, with his white sail growing larger, and her heart beat so fast. Despite the constant fear and the destruction of what they loved, they had many happy years, starting after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the fall of the Falas. Hithlum was no longer viable, and by the force of fate they had found each other again in the Mouths of Sírion and she had sailed to the Isle of Balar, as some of her people followed her, and others joined her son’s company, or or reunited with relatives under Idril’s banner. She was not free from duty, but she was free, at last, to live by Círdan’s side. Gil-galad had grown so very fast and took his first steps, taking over his duties as High-King. He respected her, but soon, Írimë found that she was less needed than before, and while she was at first lost, soon she found purpose for herself. Círdan watched the whole process amused and concerned in equal parts.

War came upon them again too soon, with the Host of Valinor landing on the shores of Beleriand. The Enemy was finally vanquished, but the land lay in ruin and was swallowed by the angry sea. Still, they had warning and time just enough to save their people and find a home elsewhere, in the East, where before few went. Again, there was happiness, this time less tempered with shadows, until they grew again, with the fall of Ost-en-Edhil and later, the war waged by the Last Alliance against Morgoth’s ill servant. Írimë made a point of not being left behind, ruling Lindon from Mithlond. It was foolish and she found her death in an ambush even before reaching the South.

She laughed bitterly when she woke up in Mandos, then she cried. But, despite all that she had lived, she soon found her way out of the Halls. 

“Your heart is old and wise, and full of love,” Mandos said to her, as she departed.

\----

At last the white sails were close to the harbour. She could now see the beloved figure of Círdan, carefully steering the ship closer to the dock. She tried to stay composed, as an old, wise soul would, but she could not do it for long. She ran through the pier and jumped aboard, flying into Círdan’s arms.

“I missed you,” she said, as he kissed her hair.

“I missed you too…” he whispered in her ear. “So very much, for so long.”

“You’re here now. You need to see what Gil-galad is doing up North with my son. But first, you need to meet my mother and my brother Finarfin. And you need to see Tírion and I know you will want to visit Elrond. He now lives with his wife, you know - lovely girl.”

“Should I be worried?” Círdan said laughing.

“No,” Írimë replied laughing too. “I intend to let you breathe… on occasion!”

Círdan tightened his embrace before letting her free. “You look more beautiful than I remember.”

“Flaterrer!” Írimë replied, laughing. She was aware that they were drawing stares, but she was bursting with happiness. She took him by the hand and both walked out of the ship through a plank that someone had placed there. Now was the time for Círdan to greet those called in haste to witness his arrival, but later she would be glad to take him to see Gildor, the hobbits, Elrond, Galadriel and her husband, and so many others. And she would have time to rest in his arms, savouring the reunitement with the love of her life.

Finis  
January 2021


End file.
